


Mister Fahrenheit

by MaethoMixup



Category: Naruto, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: BAMF Haruno Sakura, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters Are Pro Heroes (My Hero Academia), Crossover, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kirishima Eijirou is a Ray of Sunshine, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaethoMixup/pseuds/MaethoMixup
Summary: Bakugou knows trouble when he sees it, and Sakura is the worst kind: a villain who punches like All Might and grins like a friend.“What are you doing here?” he asks, because she's on the run, a wanted criminal, and he's a hero. Because this is a bar and he's too many beers deep to deal with a shapeshifting alien in party clothes.“My name’s Sakura,” she says instead of answering, holding out a hand and dropping it when he doesn't move to shake. She huffs. “You have no manners.”“I've got them,” he says, rough, glaring from her to the bottle in his hand. “Not sure if you deserve them.”





	1. Red Flag Warning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all my friends who give me the confidence to write and share my work. Y'all the real MVPs.
> 
> If you would like to join [EndoplasmicPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndoplasmicPanda/pseuds/EndoplasmicPanda) and I in a new Discord server we've created, please consider the code: SmeDuHt

She punches like All Might. 

Not like Deku, a poor imitation of victory, too much teeth and smiles and posturing. No, she falls from the sky like the Earth is meant to shatter, like it’s meant to bow to her will and crumble into servitude. She takes a step forward and, fuck, Bakugou knows she's unstoppable. There's a brick wall behind her eyes and _that's_ not crumbling. It's the only one that _isn't_.

There were buildings here once, just a minute ago. The people had already been evacuated, but there’s no longer homes for them to return to. The fires could be extinguished, asphalt relaid, concrete rebuilt into houses, but four corners and a planter on the side aren’t homes. Only years of memories can create those. 

And like a storm, in the blink of bright light and a thunderous roar, her fist had flattened a neighborhood into a crater of bricks and livewire. Broken water pipes spew from the fringe inwards, and Bakugou hears radio chatter warning the heroes around him to be careful.

“ _I can’t get close!_ ” Kaminari shouts through his earpiece. Bakugou sees him on the other side of the wreckage between Jirou and Koda. Scientists cower behind them with their instruments raised to the wormhole sputtering within the clouds, tendrils leeching and gurgling on the atmosphere like a parasite, growing more ravenous now than in the last month it had blocked the city from the stars. Darkness stretches from the center, swirling around where she'd fallen from.

The ground still quakes, or maybe that’s just him, limbs shaking in anticipation. He raises a hand and clenches it into a fist when he can’t _stop_ , shaking. Wanting. The shiver snakes down his spine, all the way to his toes.

A siren blares, loud and continuous. Reinforcements will arrive soon, he knows. He should wait for them. That doesn't stop him from walking over glass shards to the edge, from wanting to feel the air pressure implode into a tidal wave again, crashing and suffocating all at once, because it reminds Bakugou of _him_ , the idol of his childhood whose battles he'd watched on repeat every night. He can see All Might in the way she concentrates on her surroundings, crouched and ready to continue her warpath. Her gaze takes him in and skips him over, stops and stares at the crowd of white lab coats, then glances up at the swirling vortex as it shrinks with each passing second, wisps extending too far from the center. 

“No,” she breathes out. He can’t hear it at this distance, but he can read the panic in her jaw and watches her throat flex, gulping down whatever other words she’d thought to say. Her knees bend further, her arms stretch to steady herself. 

She’s about to jump, Bakugou can tell, to fling herself back to wherever she had fallen from. He doesn’t know if she can reach it, doesn’t want to find out, so he _moves_. He blasts off the ledge to soar his way towards her.

“ _Bakugou!_ ” Jiro yells, nearly lunges in after him, but Koda holds her back, says something about water and backup and dangers that only make Bakugou grin.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he tells them, and then he's there, feet finding purchase on a rock and slinging his body at her. His open palm connects with her face. Flames explode across her skin, engulf her startled gasp and burn pink hair to blackened threads. “And fuck _you_.” His weight shifts sideways and he uses a leg to kick her off balance.

Her charred image hits the ground and shatters into scattering smoke, and in her place a pipe lands with an innocent thud. 

Bodies don’t burn into _pipes_.

“What the—” There’s a foot on his back, pressing in and pushing off like he’s a goddamn springboard. He reaches for her ankle on instinct, but she’s already halfway to the clouds, arm outstretched, desperate.

“Naruto!” she screams, begs the sky to hear her, demands the vortex to answer with every furious swipe of her fingers, then she’s falling — again, but this time she’s not turning. Her back faces the ground.

Bakugou stares at her back, waiting.

Waiting.

He doesn’t fancy himself a good person, but he's a good _hero_ , and if he let's a villain die because they're too stupid to land on their feet twice and fight like a proper asshole, then his rankings could drop, or worse: probation. And being forced to twiddle his thumbs instead of prowl the streets sounds like a one way ticket to — fuck. What do people do when they're not kicking criminals into jail cells? 

Drink, he decides on. He could go for a beer after the massive let down this turned out to be. He had charged in looking to punch All Might in her stupid, grim face, not save a damsel in distress, which he doesn’t fucking _do_ , doesn’t fucking _want_ to do.

She lands in his arms and he hates every goddamn second that she stares past him, eyes glued above them. 

“ _The wormhole closed!_ ” Kaminari says. “ _Are you — Bakugou what’s going on? Is this a — Jirou what is he doing? He’s not responding.”_

__

“ _Maybe he’s bewitched?_ ” she offers.

“ _That’s not her quirk,_ ” Koda quietly reminds them as if they know something about her abilities other than punches hard and maybe pipe-related. There’s no reason she couldn't charm him, though he's not. There's too much adrenaline boiling in his gut, too much need to win against unbreakable walls. Bricks are still there, behind her wide gaze, just not built for him. Like there’s a threat out there more terrifying than his explosions and it’s hard not to be insulted. 

She blinks, finally, and pulls herself back to reality with a shuddered breath. Finds metal-clad arms under her legs and shoulders, but she doesn't struggle. “Why did you catch me? I thought you were trying to kill me,” she says with a hint of danger still wrapped around herself, like murder is more common than decency and _he's_ the one with his head screwed on backwards. It makes him question where she's from, but she's speaking the same language, and maybe that answers less questions than he’d thought considering the vortex she'd come through.

Only then does he notice the blood trailing from her hairline to her ripped, red shirt. Not caused by fire, but by a weapon, something piercing. One cheek is yellow as if someone _had_ managed to punch her, and it pisses him off that it wasn’t him. 

“So?” he asks, gives a pointed look at the rubble he stands on and the sewage bubbling between cracked concrete foundations. The sirens are louder now, more insistent. Closer.

Glancing up, she freezes. He can feel her stiffen in his hold. “Oh.”

“That’s it?” he growls. “Just — _oh?_ ”

“I thought it was a trap.” She shrugs like demolishing three city blocks is a reasonable response to anything. “Then you caught me, and. Well, I’m not sure why you did that. You didn't have to. I was hoping to — Well. I had a plan.”

“That didn't _look_ like a plan. Besides,” he huffs, mouth trying to twist into something of a smile. “Saving people is what heroes do.” The Academy’s teachings come quickly even two years after graduating. It’s easier to parrot textbooks than to explain the deeper truth; he doubts any woman enjoys hearing about how punchable her face is. 

The yellow there bothers him. He wants to darken it purple in a real fight, not this bewildering sham. 

“ _He’s quoting Heroic Deeds 101!_ ” Kaminari nearly shrieks into his microphone. “ _Bakugou! Is this code? Do you need backup?_ ”

“ _Blink once for yes,_ ” Jirou supplies helpfully.

“ _He’s blinking!_ ” There’s the sound of commotion near the scientists, but Bakugou ignores them and especially Koda, who’s mumbling dumb shit again. 

The woman snorts. “Definitely not a trap.”

“No,” he agrees. His eyes map out a trail down her neck and across her slim shoulders, along her arms and past her chest to her abdomen. The blood doesn’t stop at her neckline. Gashes coil along her bare skin, barely covered by what’s left of her clothes. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“But the portal?” she asks. “Were you expecting that?”

“It’s been here,” Bakugou responds easily, wary still. “You create it?”

She shakes her head. “No. No, not me. I was thrown into it. It was — There was no time. Had to disrupt it somehow.” Her voice comes unraveled, hitching once, but she continues with a lopsided smile and a distinct lack of humor, “We thought I could make it back through in time.”

“ _Ground Zero_ ,” a new voice says as they connect with their radio frequency. “ _This is the police. Are you able to restrain her?_ ”

Koda responds for him, “ _She's not hostile, sir. Not since she fell. And she's injured._ ” 

“ _She's extraterrestrial. Could be dangerous even without meaning to be,_ ” another person chimes in. A hero. Bakugou doesn't recognize the voice. 

“They're right,” she says, and his attention snaps back to her and that wall. He reads the threat she's not saying like it's sprawled across her skin. Like it's graffiti, multicolored and complex. His grip tightens on reflex. 

“I definitely could be dangerous.” Her eyelashes flutter teasingly so. She's still slack in his arms, hands tucked in at her sides, one caught between her hip and his chest, but he's not sure it matters.

“So,” she continues, “are you able to restrain me?”

“ _Ground Zero, do you need assistance? We have the area surrounded._ ” 

Bakugou doesn't need to look up to know that the police stand on the perimeter, heroes in front and ready to strike. He sees their flashing red-blue lights reflect off the waters, hears a barking of orders and an answering ripple of tension. Helicopters chirp overhead, likely reporters, though they shouldn't be here. Area access to this sector is restricted, ever since the day the sky opened up. 

“You gonna surrender peacefully?” he asks, because he's willing to fight, wants her to say no so he can test his strength against hers and prove he's the best, but she's injured and alone and a fight's not worth having if it isn't _fair_. 

He's not sure if that matters either. She's not blind, she can see she's outnumbered and still there's a cocky tilt to her head as she nods at the scientists. “I know their kind, even if the rest of this world is a bit different compared to mine. I have no interest in becoming their test subject.” 

A science experiment; that’s exactly what she'd become. Just like this neighborhood after the evacuation one month ago. The men and women in white itch to know more about the wormhole and where it leads to. A human — at least, he assumes she's human, bleeds red and _feels_ human — must be a jackpot for them. Their movements are frantic as they wait behind his team.

But that's not his issue and he certainly can't sympathize with a villain on live television, no matter where she came from or why she punched the world upon landing. “Sounds like a no,” he says, fingers clamping down harder, rougher. Enough to leave fingerprint shaped bruises where they touch.

“Sorry,” and she doesn't sound sorry; not even a little, as her posture stiffens, “but I can't get home if I'm quarantined. No guarantee they'll let me go.”

Bakugou nods because he understands, because it buys him a second to think before she's dynamite in his arms, tangling a hand in his shirt and another in his hair, snaking legs around his waist to get at the pressure points in his neck. Shouts bounce from the police to the heroes, sound distorted through the blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline still white-hot and sizzling, ready to ignite. 

He lets himself tip forward. For a moment, with nothing but air and noise around them, their gazes lock, brows furrowed. Yellow _taunts_ him.

His fingers brush her cheek, like a whisper. A promise. With his other, he grasps her elbow. 

Then her spine slams into jagged rocks, breaking her hold, and he grabs her diamond-dotted forehead and smashes that down too, just in case her previous wounds weren't enough. Her grin cracks into a snarl, moment broken, everything haywire, everything _perfect_.

Sero circles around to flank them.

Bakugou dodges a knee and blasts off near her head, blinding her with dust and sudden sound. She blinks and stands, stumbles. Her balance catches, a teeter totter on two legs, but she lunges at him without direction, punches the air and the force knocks him back. 

Tape wraps around her biceps to keep her anchored before she can follow through. “Got her!” Sero cheers, and clearly he’s only just arrived or else he would’ve known to be more careful, to not give her a connection to grab at and pull. Her grip squeezes the bindings, knees bent, and she swings him like a bat to snap him off her. He flies in the opposite direction. 

Bakugou doesn't hear a crash, assumes he's fine. There's no time to look; her heel creates a fissure spanning the width of the battlefield and in a blaze of smoke, five of her rush toward him.

His explosions pop one clone and Kaminari’s shot of electricity is enough to burst another, but there’s a blur of black, a flicker of heat, and she appears at his side. He hears a crunch when her fist connects and now — _now_ — she looks sorry, like breaking his ribs is a necessity she hates, but it's an emotion flashed between a flurry of motion and Bakugou caves in on himself, hunches around the pain, and then she kicks and he soars into the carcass of an apartment building.

But he's not dead. Landing on snapped wood and hacking out a cough, forcing himself to stand — it sucks, but he _should_ be dead. The destruction around him is proof enough of what she's capable of. At full strength, one punch and there wouldn't even be bones left for his family bury.

So she’s going easy on him. It would piss him off more if he had a death wish, but he doesn't, because, fuck. The dead can't enjoy _shit_. They can't shove a piece of railing to the side and step out ready to be kicked again on the off chance they might be lucky enough to smash her face in, too.

He pulls himself free and a sea of heroes and their quirks surround the epicenter now, blocking his view with wild lightning and fire. He recognizes most of them. Todoroki, he notes, created a glacier towering over one side of the crater, a hole the size of a truck torn into it, shards breaking off onto the battlefield.

“ _— clones dealt with —_ “ says a man, voice exploding through radio static.

“ _— disappeared —_ “

Then Jirou's voice rings out, “ _She burrowed underground, heading west!_ ”

Her ear snaps back into place and the heroes surge in the indicated direction, following her lead. Bakugou starts after them before catching sight of red, gelled hair and he turns fully to see Kirishima’s concern glaring at him from across the ruins. He teeters, torn between Bakugou and the manhunt, worries his bottom lip as if wanting to say something inappropriate like, “ _Are you okay?_ ” or “ _Do you need help?_ ” Instead, he points to an ambulance and mouths, “Get in the van,” before sprinting off alongside Fatgum.

Bakugou considers ignoring him. He presses a hand to his sternum, fingertips testing his cracked bones. The pain is manageable, he's fought with worse, but the kickback from his own quirk means one wrong angle and a rib could be knocked into any one of his vitals.

Letting out a harsh, angry breath, he stomps his way to the van.

* * *

He's quarantined for a week. A _week_ inside a hospital room below ground level, no windows or visitors or internet access, stuck on a mattress with more springs than foam, counting the petals on the floral wallpaper until he comes to the conclusion that the doctors are attempting to drive him insane. 

He feels it, too. There's somewhere between a hundred and a thousand flowers on the wall opposite his bed. Each day his total changes as they waltz in carrying needles and machines, claiming this would be the last test. Just one more, and it’ll all be over. 

"She might’ve left an infectious agent on you, from the other side," they had said through the thick masks of their hazmat suits, repeatedly, like a mantra to every one of his questions. His clearance level _should_ be high enough to get a decent answer or two, but their lips stay tight and their eyes stay greedy.

They don't find anything. When the week's over, they run out of excuses and set him free.

Bakugou kicks the entranceway open and Kirishima stands on the other side, leaning against a lamppost. He wiggles a plastic bag at him.

“Tired of hospital food yet?” he asks with a cheeky goddamn grin, full of sunshine and sagging relief, and it’s the most welcomed thing Bakugou has ever seen.

He snatches the bag and peers inside, lets his mirth color his expression. “Chicken wings,” he breathes out, then _in_ , to smell the spices. “ _Fuck_.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Kirishima laughs, claps him lightly on the shoulder and not his back. “You want to eat here or back at your place? You look like you could use a shower, too.”

“Home,” Bakugou agrees. The sterile cloak of death and medicine still feels suffocating even without the glitz of fluorescents enveloping him. “Don’t want to see this shithole again.”

Kirishima tilts his head, glances between Bakugou and the smooth grey lines of the facility behind them. Thumbs catching the hem of his pockets, he rocks back on his heels and hums. “Sero and Koda get out tomorrow, though I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not here to greet them.”

“No,” Bakugou growls. He starts towards the bus station, expects Kirishima to follow and refuses to care if he doesn’t. “Take Mina.”

He falls into step beside him. “Can’t. She’s on a press junket until Saturday. She sends her regards.”

“Fuck her regards,” he says, more harsh than he means to, makes a face, puts on a grin to try and seem a little less laid bare. His steps come quicker, his legs move faster. Kirishima keeps up.

City air breezes by, mixed with smoked gasoline and street food. Compared to the stale churning of air conditioning units, he savors each breath. Breathes deep, lets the warmth uncoil through him. 

The flowers here are real. If he was alone, if Kirishima wasn't hovering by his shoulder, ready to help like Bakugou needs it, well. He might sniff the roses, the ones sitting pretty in a cafe window. He might stand on the sidewalk and not move until sunrise, just because he can. Because there's no locked door and three cameras keeping him from doing whatever it is he wants.

“Your ribs okay?” Kirishima asks once they’re further from the hospital.

“Healing.” He glances down to where Kirishima’s eyes had fallen. Bandages peek from under the collar of his shirt. “I’m off rotation for another two weeks.”

He whistles in appreciation. “She really did a number on you.”

Bakugou grunts, doesn't want to acknowledge it or her or those fists.

A hand latches onto his elbow and Kirishima pulls him to a standstill. “We didn’t — Don’t look at me like that. You saw how many quirks she had. We lost her in Kiyashi Ward. She blended into the shopping crowd.”

And if that's not another kick to the gut, he doesn't know what is.

“She was injured,” Bakugou says, because there was blood, everywhere. He remembers sharp lines spiraling down her body and pinholes freckling her skin. Remembers red on his palms and the sinking dread when scientists wiped it into test tubes.

Injuries should weigh her down, slow her pace, but it's been a week and she's still a fugitive. Bakugou feels anticipation crawl back into his limbs.

“I _know_ ,” Kirishima snaps back and grimaces. His voice lowers, softens. “If we had Hound Dog with us, maybe we could have tracked her, but we only had Jirou. She couldn’t pinpoint her. Too much — ” he waves his hands to the pedestrians rushing by them, “ — noise.”

He sighs, scuffs the pavement as they continue walking. “She was sighted downtown twice since then, one was a clone. Other escaped.”

Bakugou frowns. “A distraction.”

“Yeah. She’s likely found somewhere to hunker down, maybe an abandoned building, or maybe she had a target in mind.” He shrugs. “We’re on high-alert.”

The bus stop greets them when they round the corner, and they stop. Bakugou peeks sideways at Kirishima. Stress lines crease at the edges of his eyes; they weren't there before the wormhole, and they weren't this deep before it closed. Bakugou wonders if they're reflected on his own face.

“What time are you heading over tomorrow?” he asks.

Kirishima blinks like he's blindsided, then grins, leaning forward. “I knew it!” 

“Just tell me the time,” he huffs. “I need to go to Central first. I lost my hero license during the fight.”

He nods. It’s not the first time it's happened. “Meet me at Kaminari’s whenever you’re done there. We’ll all go together.”

“You didn’t even —” _need me_ , he nearly shouts, but the Red Riot theme song cuts him off. 

“Sorry!” Kirishima snatches at his pockets and fumbles with his phone, cringing at the name flashing on the screen. “I need to get back to the office. I was _technically_ only on my lunch break.”

He snorts. “Yeah? When did that end?”

“Doesn’t matter!” He laughs, backing up a step. “See you tomorrow!”

Bakugou watches him leave until the crowd swallows him whole and turns back to wait. The bag crinkles in his hand, still warm, but no longer steaming. 

The bus is as crowded as it always is, teenagers filling the aisle, chattering loudly, and businessmen sitting down with briefcases held tightly on their laps. His stop isn't far. He gets off with a group of women and turns right, walking past houses until his apartment building comes into view. 

He checks his mailbox before taking the stairs, flipping through bills and little else, stuffing the envelopes into his back pocket and takes out his keys. The fourth floor has floral wallpaper too similar to the hospital's, and he moves faster, nearly sprints to his door and flings it open. 

“Oh shit,” he hears as the door swings wide.

On his kitchen counter, legs dangling and a spoon in his last tub of ice cream, sits the woman wearing _his_ clothes, pink hair smelling of _his_ shampoo, jaw dropped like she hadn’t expected him to walk over his own goddamn threshold. 

“Well,” she says, setting his ice cream down. “You’re home early.”


	2. Two-Tone Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all the people who had such amazingly kind words to say about the first chapter! I was really overwhelmed and truly thankful for each and every comment and review. Y’all fucking rock!
> 
> All the location names in My Hero Academia are references to Star Wars, which is such a neat idea, so I’ll be staying true to that theme as I expand the world a bit more.

Her feet hit the linoleum, hip resting against his veneered cabinets, both hands outstretched and clearly visible, palms facing up in surrendering politeness. “Welcome home?” she says, more question than heartfelt, more sarcastic than he appreciates.

If Bakugou had invited her into his home, if he’d allowed her to eat his ice cream like they're friends, he might grin, answer with a laugh, but she's wearing his clothes and standing in his kitchen and he's furious. He drops his bag and slams the door closed because if he's going to commit murder, he's going to do it _right_. No witnesses. No blood on his goddamn chicken wings.

He’ll have to reheat them. Just another crime to add to her ever growing list.

His shirt is too big for her, collar low and dipping off one shoulder, hem dangling nearly to the bottom of his red gym shorts. Her hair is held back by one of Kirishima's headbands — the orange one that was never in style, but somehow matches everything he owns. He’d left it here before the city went to shit and Bakugou hasn't seen it since.

He doesn't want to think of what else she’d found while snooping through his apartment. Not because he has anything nefarious to hide. It's a matter of principle, and Bakugou likes his privacy to remain _private_.

As if reading his thoughts, she smiles like her face is reassuring. “I only used what was necessary, I promise.”

He points to the carton beside her. “Since when is ice cream _necessary_?”

She rolls her eyes, gives up on being polite too quickly for a criminal caught squatting in his home. “It's vanilla. There’s not even chocolate chips in it, or — or _fudge_ . If anything, I did you a favor.”  
  
“A favor,” he deadpans. A fucking _favor._

He's too pent up, cooped up for days, anger a wildfire waiting for tinder and he wants to see her _burn_. His teeth snap shut and he's throwing her over the counter and through the serving hatch before she can smell the mango habanero coating his chicken and insult that too.

The spoon clatters to the floor and she lands on her feet, because of course she does, and holds her hands up, says, “Calm down, I'm sorry! I'm just here to talk,” like she has any right to a civilized conversation while she circles around his coffee table.

His favorite mug sits on a cork coaster near the remote and a tea bag floats innocently inside it. Still warm. Reminds him painfully of what he hasn't been allowed to drink all week. The volume on the television is turned low, newscasters discussing the local heroes, and his comforter lays piled on the couch like she'd leisurely watched the citywide manhunt from the safety of his living room.

While he had been quarantined, poked and prodded with needles under the glare of cameras and face masks.

His fingers clamp around the closest object: an All Might action figure given to him eons ago on a Christmas eve spent with friends. From Mina, he remembers, as a gag joke he hadn't found funny.

She'll forgive him one day.

“Oh no,” the woman says, eyes growing wide. “Don't you dare — “

Bakugou raises All Might, aims, feels heat fester between skin and plastic and rockets the toy from his palm towards her shocked expression.

His shoulder jerks back; pain shoots across his chest as burningly intense as his quirk, and he coughs to relieve the sudden pressure, clutching at his shirt and bandages to lift the material from their suffocating grip. He feels weak, like he hasn't since the day he fell into the river and Deku's hand reached out, since the days in the academy when he became stronger, better than his peers, but so did they, always striving to be the number one hero despite that spot belonging to only _one_ person, and it's Bakugou. It’s always been him. He was born to be the best, his quirk is _proof_ of that.

He still thinks that, a little desperately.

So this scrambling to keep himself steady, using the wall to pretend he's not ready to collapse, spawns that feeling again, that sinking dread and burning fury — and fear. Not of her, because he doesn't cower, but of himself. Of what he isn't, right now. In this moment with his ego vandalized by his own morality.

This doesn't feel like how a hero should.

“You're being unreasonable,” she says from beside the gaping, crumbling hole in his wall, frazzled frown cutting across her lips, sleeve singed and smoking.

He blinks. Concrete dust and debris settle over his apartment and the street below, sun too bright now that only the wind separates them from the sky. Street noise filters through, civilians yell into phones.

“Why would you _do_ that?” she asks. Her — _his_ — fuzzy slipper taps a footprint into the carpet. “It's not like I had many options after your people labeled me a villain for _existing_ despite it being _their_ fault I'm even here!”

“You destroyed Raishi Ward!” he sputters, struggles to stand upright. His broken ribs ache and groan against the pull of gravity, sink into the deep space below his sternum. “And my wall,” he adds out of spite. “That's pretty fucking villainous.”

Her jaw drops. “Are you blaming me for _dodging_?”

Bakugou snarls, wants to say, _“Yes, I fucking am,”_ but she holds up a hand to cut him off. He doesn't have enough breath to protest. “Don't answer that. There’s no time to argue.” She snatches the remote and raises the volume on the news.

 _“Reports are coming in of an explosion near Takodaka Station — “_ A livestream flickers on screen from one of the cellphones pointed at his apartment, then flashes over to a reporter trailing behind a hero draped in black cloth and darkness and heading to their location. _“Tsukuyomi is en route!”_ the man cheers into his microphone.

“Your information network is incredible,” she mutters almost to herself before dusting off her — _his_ , still his damn it — clothes and kicks the slippers from her feet. Her gaze turns to him, glides from his copper eyes to his gunmetal scowl to his wheezing, exploding chest with calculated ease. “But your healthcare needs improvement. Typical.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, tries to step forward, “ _off_.”

She rolls her eyes again. “I’m leaving, don't worry. Not trying to get captured.”

Strolling past him with a wink, she enters his bedroom and exits wearing a different one of his shirts — a black tank with U.A. blazened on the front — and her blue sandals and the belt she'd been wearing the day she arrived. Blood stains the fabric of both, but Bakugou doesn't see any sign of previous injuries on her pale, unblemished skin.

“Any tips on how to avoid him?” She jerks her thumb at the screen where Tokoyami’s shown flying over rooftops, using Dark Shadow as wings.

Bakugou sits on his ruined table because it hurts too much to remain standing, and glares.

“Right,” she says, drags out the vowel. “For your information, I'm not trying to hurt anyone, but I'm going to protect myself. If you tell me, I won't have to fight him.”

Bakugou understands little about her other than annoying as fuck, but he can read between the lines. She's more powerful than Tokoyami, and though she doesn't know that, she's confident enough to guess it. And she's not wrong. He has the evidence fractured within him.

He glances back at the television. There's a chance another hero was dispatched, and if that's the case, he should delay her departure until they have the manpower to finally detain her. But Tsukuyomi regularly conducts nighttime patrols, his cloak and public persona designed to absorb moonlight, to become every criminal’s worst nightmare, so his appearance during the day speaks volumes. The heroes are stretched thin. There's not enough presence in this area to match the power she wields.

Tokoyami doesn't realize what threat awaits him, likely assumes something benign in comparison to her — not that much compares except a man long past his prime, Bakugou thinks. And if he discovers her, Tokoyami won't give up until he's pummeled into becoming more creature than man, and more mangled than both.

“Sunlight,” he rasps. “Keep away from dark areas. That's where — “ he coughs, “ — where he's strongest. Tends to stick to alleyways when he, _fuck_. Don't fucking break my ribs next time. Fuck.”

One of her brows raise, mouth quirked, but she doesn't apologize. Lets him continue.

“Ambush tactics. He'll attempt to force you into an underpass,” he finishes.

She nods. “Stick to the main streets then, got it. Easy enough.”

Walking to his cabinets, she opens the one above his sink and takes out a box of granola bars, stuffing all six into her pockets even as he sputters obscenities from behind her. “Shush,” she tells him and whirls her hair into a ponytail using the headband as a faux scrunchie. “If I steal from you, I won't have to steal from someone else. Think of it as doing your civic duty.”

He wets his lips, wants to argue. Thinks instead to call bullshit on her logic, but there's no hostility in her posture, no devious aura enwrapped around her body. Only a deep-seated worry he can't attribute to anxiety. She's too cocksure for that.

Her gaze darts down and there it is. _Concern_. For the injury she gave him.

“I would kill you if I could,” he grumbles, more resigned than angry, but almost positive he means it.

She shrugs, opens his door. Smirks like he'd told a joke and flips back a stray strand to dismiss it. “You had your chance,” she says and dashes into the hall without looking back or saying goodbye.

Not that he’d expected her to but, fuck.

 

* * *

 

His apartment becomes a crime scene, and then they quarantine it after Bakugou gives his statement to the police, biohazard signs and fabric sealing his apartment shut within the time it takes to evacuate the fourth floor entirely.

Which means he's officially homeless without extra clothes, chicken wings, or sanity, and it's all her fault. Or the scientists’, Bakugou doesn't care who takes the blame.

It's _someone's_ fault and it's certainly not his.

“Am I hurting you?” the medic asks, pulling back his palm from Bakugou's bare chest with a worried frown aimed at whatever expression Bakugou is making.

Something murderous, probably. He doesn't bother masking his frustration.

“Just get on with it,” he says instead of correcting the man's assumption.

Iced eyes glance at the lone scientist perched nearby, watching them with a clipboard in hand, but his yellow-sparked fingertips press down, gentle. “I apologize, my quirk is unable to mend bones without a significant drain, but everything else will be in working order before I leave. Strenuous activity is not recommended.”

Bakugou grunts out a response, feels another shock thrill through his muscles and sink deep into his lungs, pulsing like electricity and grounded as if by wire.

Several minutes pass before Tokoyami walks down the apartment stairs to where Bakugou sits in the front lobby, chair tucked beside the mailboxes. A policewoman escorts him over and returns to her post on the bottom step.

“Ground Zero,” he greets, pulls down his hood to reveal a plume of dark feathers and nods at the man kneeling on the ground. “Medic Man, I'm glad you’re permitted to assist us on this dark day.”

“Me too,” he murmurs, but doesn't otherwise stray from his task.

Tokoyami takes a moment to regard Bakugou, makes him squirm under the scrutiny until his arms straighten and become stiff at his sides, and he bows deep at the waist. “I bring you my deepest regrets. I was unable to find her.”

 _This_ is why Bakugou avoids him. Too much gloom and doom and politeness. “Cut it out,” he mumbles and averts his gaze. “I don't care.”

Though he's relieved she evaded him, Bakugou can't say that out loud. Too many curious ears, and he'd left his involvement out of the police report. His reputation wouldn't survive if that information was made public.

Tokoyami straightens, beak a grim line like it always is, shoulders squared and ready for the apocalypse. “I’ve made the necessary calls. Though my failure weighs heavily upon me, all available personnel will centralize upon this location. She will be found before the sun sets.”

“Yeah, fine. That's — “ Bakugou pauses, heartbeat a sudden war march across his splintered rib cage. He has to ask, “ _All_ available personnel? Even from neighboring sectors?”

“Of course,” he says, proud of himself when he shouldn't be. “Central wants this situation taken care of swiftly considering — “

The entranceway swings open and all Bakugou hears is a loud wail, then, “Kacchan!”

His vision floods with green-coated, bulky muscles and wild forest hair, white cape a whirlwind behind him. Deku leans over Medic Man, arms flailing like he doesn't know what to do, like he wants to _hug_ him and the only thing preventing a gross violation of personal space is the hero between them.

“I heard she attacked while you were sleeping!” he shouts, and Bakugou gives Tokoyami a betrayed glare. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you know where she's headed?”

“What kind of stupid ass, grapevine gossip is that?” he growls out, pulse racing, anger rising on waves of pure annoyance. Electricity still ripples against his core, teases at his quirk. Makes him want to burst. Makes him want to _fight_ , to prove he's not weak.

Deku has All Might's quirk, but he doesn't punch like him. Just a mockery able to fool everyone but Bakugou into believing he's the new symbol of peace.

 _She's_ not that symbol either. Can't be, as a criminal. But if Bakugou can beat her, he can beat _anyone_.

He already knows he can beat Deku.

“That's not what I told Uravity,” Tokoyami quickly defends.

“But she _did_ injured you.” Deku gasps at Bakugou, at his naked torso, finally discerning the scene through his needless, unwanted concern. His brows furrow and he evaluates the bruise splattered from his throat to his abdomen, darkest point in the vague shape of a fist, but no longer swollen.

“This happened last week,” Bakugou snarls, but as always Deku doesn't _listen_ , too caught up in thoughts and theories.

“And Ochako said your apartment is quarantined?” he continues without pause. “Do you need a place to stay? Our home is always open to you, you know that. And we'll be your bodyguards! Since the villain seems to be targeting you. Which, did she say why? Do you know what she wants?”

Bakugou counts to ten, fails, starts again.

“Tsukuyomi,” he barely manages to say, “did you call Red Riot?”

“He was the first,” he confirms.

“Good.” Bakugou shoves the medic away from him, snapping the connection, not caring if he was finished. Stands, storms past all three of them despite Deku’s blubbering — or in spite of it, because he and the woman both deserve it — and shoves the door open to leave.

The scientist runs after him, fox features awash with panic. “You can't go! We have to run more tests!”

And Bakugou wants nothing less than that, refuses to have their machines attached and beeping even a minute more than the week he's only just escaped from. Rejects the very idea, because one test means twenty, and twenty means a hundred. And she didn't specify how many, so he thinks he knows the answer: somewhere close to infinity.

A trash can rests next to the entrance, near the police barricade but not beyond the tape. He picks it up and jams it against the astragal molding, metal rim tucked under the doorknobs. Through the glass he sees them slack jawed, confused, and he flips them off because the gesture brings him a sense of comfort he sorely needs. Like it's armor, something bulletproof.

“This is really immature, Kacchan!” he hears Deku say, but it's the best he's felt since leaving the hospital, and he has no plans on going back.

 

* * *

 

“I'm not saying I agree with Midoriya, but that _was_ kind of immature,” Kirishima says when he enters his own apartment and finds Bakugou face first on top of his bean bag chair, empty beer can beside him. “And you drinking isn't helping my opinion here, just so we're clear.”

He sighs and steps around the shoes Bakugou left in the hallway, drops something Bakugou can't see from his angle near the floor. Feels his stare cut from across the room. “Dude, you're injured and laying _directly_ on your broken bones. If your goal is to make me worried, I promise you, mission accomplished.” Kirishima moves closer, hovers somewhere near his feet. “Can you at least roll over so I know you're not dying?”

It's a reasonable request, so Bakugou complies and drops back into the divet his weight had carved out hours ago. “I only had one. It's all you had in the fridge.”

“Is this before or after you went to buy more?” he asks, too all-knowing for his damn good.

“After,” he admits. “I tried buying a six pack on the way here. Turns out I was shirtless. Wouldn't sell it to me.”

“Because you stormed off without thinking. Again.” Kirishima picks up the can, throws it in his recycling bin before falling cross-legged beside him. “Wanna talk about it?”

He focuses specifically on the vaulted ceiling and not his friend, who waits patiently with puppy dog eyes even as time ticks purposefully by. When his hesitance verges on rude, he relents. “Are you gonna make me feel like shit if I don't?”

“You already feel like shit,” he points out. “You want me to go first? I have some news you might like.” Bakugou shrugs, so Kirishima shifts closer, cups a hand around his mouth and proceeds in a near whisper, “We know how she found your apartment.”

At that, Bakugou rises to his elbows and fully gives him his attention. He’s in his Red Riot costume, boots and pads missing, sweat gluing his bangs against his forehead.

Kirishima leans back and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slim piece of plastic and setting it in Bakugou's lap. “You didn't lose your hero license, she stole it. We found it on your nightstand. Her fingerprints are all over it.”

He picks it up and squints at the surface like it holds more than that one answer. All he sees is his own glowering picture and his personal information scrawled under it in neat lettering. “Why did they let you take it if it's evidence?”

Silence. Bakugou looks up and Kirishima is scratching at his cheek, bashful smile turned away from him. “Midoriya cashed in a few favors. Turns out being a top five hero has some perks.”

Bakugou tilts his head, restrains his criticism, knows better than to interrupt.

“And,” Kirishima stretches out the word and ends it with a chuckle, “I may have caused a distraction for those we couldn't convince to help us. But if anyone asks, your lamp had it coming. Totally threatened me, you should’ve seen it.”

His breath loosens all at once. “I always knew that lamp was up to no good,” he muses, receives a laugh and sharp-toothed grin that's hard not to reciprocate.

“Well,” Kirishima says, slaps his thighs twice and springs to his feet, extending his arms high to crack his back. “You hungry? I noticed the chicken wings by your door. Sucks they went to waste.” He maneuvers between his oversize armchair and the wall, careful of the mural of haphazardly taped newspaper clippings and ducks under his archway. Opening his fridge, he pauses. “Oh, you had my leftover pizza.”

“Sorry,” Bakugou mutters from the other room.

Kirishima waves him off. “You needed it, don't worry about it. I'm going to make something for myself though.”

Heaving himself up, Bakugou peers around the corner at what Kirishima had dropped in the entryway, sees a bag of clothes and knows those were smuggled from his apartment too. He smiles, can't stop himself even if he’s tempted.

He moves and falls into a kitchen chair only when his softness steels into indifference, but knows he owes him an explanation. Owes Kirishima too much today to stay silent.

“She blamed us for the wormhole.” At Kirishima's bewilderment, he sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. Dust and grime get caught under his blunted nails; he still needs a shower. Smelling himself under the guise of stretching doubly confirms that.

Bakugou tries to clarify, “Not _us_ , but someone here. On this side. Said they're why she’s here.”

“I guess it's possible,” Kirishima says, frowning at his frying pan. “That might explain the list we found.” He turns on a burner before taking out his phone, types in his passcode, clicks on an icon and tosses it towards Bakugou. He catches it easily. “Her handwriting is worse than mine.”

A picture of a notebook greets him, open to the first page. It lays on his countertop, close to where she’d sat, and he doesn't recognize it as one of the few he owns. He swipes through the other crime scene photos, curious until he goes one too far and sees a gym selfie, snorts, then finds the list again.

“All hero names,” he says, reading what she'd written. The majority were there on the day she fell, either as apart of his squadron or on a team patrolling nearby. “And why the fuck am I highlighted?”

“No idea. Clearly she thinks you're involved somehow.”

“Or not involved.” He zooms in on the only other name covered in yellow marker. “The day Koda summons a wormhole is the day I eat my own shit.”

“Don't be so vulgar, dude. Gross. You're going to make me lose my appetite.” He makes a face over his shoulder, but returns to cooking, melting butter and shuffling past him to grab an utensil. “Or it could mean she's literally targeting you and Koda,” he says. “Like an assassin.”

“I would be dead if that were true,” Bakugou reminds him. “Today, if she had wanted — “ His voice hitches high and stops, and he grabs the table to steady himself.

Earlier, she hadn't even retaliated. Bakugou was too busy fighting off death to realize that during their ceasefire conversation.

“That _asshole_ ,” he fumes, slaps his palm on the hardwood sharp and loudly.

Kirishima startles and drops his spatula on the stove. Sets a packet of bacon to the side and frowns. “What? Who's an asshole? The villain?”

“ _Yes_ !” he snaps. “She was being _friendly_!”

“But you just said she’s an asshole.”

“Exactly.”

“I'll be honest,” Kirishima says slowly, “I'm getting really mixed messages here.”

He exhales a fume of frustration, knees jittering. It sounds ridiculous even as he says it, “This fucking woman thinks I'm her friend.”

A sudden, tart laugh flushes Kirishima’s cheeks, and he wipes under his eyes, calms himself, glances at Bakugou and laughs again. “I’m never going to convince the police of that. That’s — Wow. Why on Earth would she _think_ that?”

“I don't know,” Bakugou huffs, curling his fingers up and feels heat swirl just under his palm, “but I'm going to kick her ass to find out.”


	3. Storm Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I know it's been a while. Sorry for the delay. Life's been kicking my ass (new house, new job, new depression, new giant garden I have no idea why I started.) This chapter is more of a "meet the gang" and "plot hints" rather than action packed, but that'll be coming soon! Once I finish editing, that is.
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for your support and patience. I've read every review and message and I'm constantly amazed by how kind and wonderful you all are. They're what motivated me to sit down and get back to typing!
> 
> From the bottom of my itty bitty heart, thank you, thank you, thank you.

He takes a shower before passing out in the guest room, chucking the sheets to the floor in a fit of rage because he should be sleeping in his  _ own  _ apartment, and then he crawls onto the bed, cradling every pillow to his chest for warmth like they're any better than a blanket. Bakugou sleeps like he hasn't in a week, straight through breakfast, and when he wakes he takes another shower, because he can't shake the sterile feeling from his skin even after using the lemongrass bar soap until his skin is cherry-pop red and raw. 

The clothes in his bag smell clean, but he sees a pink hair nestled between a shirt and his socks and he reels back, glaring at the abomination. 

He shouldn't care. It means nothing.

But it reminds him that she was  _ there _ and it's enough to consider lighting it all on fire, just to watch a part of her burn, even if she can't feel the flames licking at her skin. 

He tells himself it's just an experiment to see if she  _ can _ burn. Some proof that he isn't fighting against the impossible.

Not that  _ that _ would stop him, either way. She can bleed and bruise and he's willing to settle for one of those if he has to.

He sets his bag on the bed and stares at the hair. Not touching it, not daring to move it.

His finger dances across the canvass, fingertip roving around the zipper. Heat swarms down his arm, pooling in his palm.

He's so fucking  _ tempted _ .

But he doesn't, because he knows it won't actually help him work through all the anger brewing in his gut, and he doesn't know what  _ will _ , but he knows enough to know this isn't it. And Kirishima was fantastic enough to grab his favorite shirts, so. He grabs one, then his jeans, letting the warmth disperse into the air. He leaves the hair on his socks and chooses to borrow a pair of Kirishima's sandals for the day.

He walks into the kitchen and Kirishima tosses him the carton of milk before he can even ask. "Drink up," he says. "Kaminari's waiting. It's almost time to fetch Koda from the hospital!"

The milk tastes sour as it slides down his throat.

"Great," he sneers. "Can't wait."

He swipes at his mouth and opens the fridge to put the carton back. There's a six pack of his favorite craft beer sitting on the top shelf beside the fruit juice and it fucking reeks of pity. Like Bakugou needs help. And he does, it's hard to deny that while he slums it in Kirishima's guest bedroom, but he doesn't need these tiny reminders of everything he's failed to accomplish in the last week being repeatedly rubbed into his ego before he's even had his coffee. 

Kirishima's on his phone updating his fitness app, eyebrows scrunched and tongue tip bitten between his teeth because he's the type of man that thinks with his mouth. A dumb habit, but Bakugou's trying to be mad at him and it's hard when he resembles a dog discovering technology for the first time.

He closes the fridge. "I can do my own shopping."

"Yeah, I know." He doesn't look up from his screen. 

"So why is there beer here?"

"The convenience store is one block from the gym."

It doesn't answer his question, not truly, but Kirishima glances up with twinkling, mischievous eyes and Bakugou hates him because there's only one thing he can think to say to that, and he refuses to be nice this early in the morning.

* * *

Kaminari has the sides of his hair shaved when he waves them inside his home.

"Who neutered you?"

"Gee, thanks for the compliment, Bakugou. Good to see you too," he grumbles, patting down the top of his blonde puffball in front of the hall mirror. "My stylist said this was trendy."

"Don't listen to him, it looks great." Kirishima elbows past Bakugou and hauls Kaminari away from his own reflection. “But we can pick up a pet cone on our way to the hospital, if you want.”   
  
He bristles and pouts, but he follows after him voluntarily. “It’s  _ trendy _ .”   
  
“Sure it is," Kirishima agrees. “Jirou coming with us?"

"Nah, she's at the studio."

"Getting the band back together?"

Kaminari nods, plopping onto the couch like Koda isn't waiting for them, head leaned back against the striped cushions, exhausted. Sheet music covers the end tables and there's paper sticking out of every one of his cargo pockets. “End of the world crime is already on its way down. The rocks and rolls have waited long enough!”

Kirishima frowns. “What about Tokoyami? His rankings have skyrocketed since your band's hiatus. I don't see him wanting to get back on bass.”

“ _ Don't _ even get me started,” Kaminari groans. “He told her no,  _ the night needs me _ and literally flew out her window! Her  _ window _ ! Who does that?”

"Tokoyami, apparently," Bakugou mutters.

"Right?" Kaminari sighs at the ceiling. "I wish I could be that dramatic."

"I think you're doing an alright job of that," Kirishima points out, nudging him over to sit beside him. "So who's going to replace him?"

"No one. His fan club would be up in arms quicker than — I don't know. It'd be fucking quick though, I tell ya. They would never let us hear the end of it."

Bakugou frowns too. He doesn't  _ get _ fan clubs. His mother once told him that he would understand when he was older, which is a cop-out answer but whatever, fine. He didn't care enough to complain — still doesn't, but he's older now, the same age as half the heroes in the scene, and the idea of making decisions based on a herd of people he's never spoken to makes him want to puke. 

There's a price to fame, he  _ knows  _ that, but blood, sweat and kicking ass should be enough to pay for it and it's not. That's what he doesn't get, so he asks, "His ranking didn't drop after failing to capture her yesterday?"

He shakes his head. "Still top twenty. I think he even went up a spot because, uh. The public is pretty pissed at you, dude. Have you seen the news? Hero TV claims you were harboring a fugitive."

"I didn't hand her the keys to my apartment! She  _ broke  _ in!"

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, "tell that to the reporters, not me."

"Maybe you could join the band, Bakugou!" Kirishima says excitedly, nearly bouncing off his seat like he'd been holding in this idea for years rather than minutes. "You use to play at U.A.!" 

"No offense," says Kaminari slowly, carefully, like Bakugou's about to break down or break  _ something  _ and it all lay in the balance of his word choice. 

As if  _ no offense  _ isn't still fucking offensive.

"But our manager would never allow that. Bakugou, dude, I love you. You know that, but — "

"Fuck off, seriously. Stop trying to sugarcoat shit." He turns his glare towards Kirishima. "And  _ you,  _ stop trying to help. You saw what happened to their rankings after they were put on patrol with me."

"I dropped eleven spots!" He wasn't whining, but it was a near thing.

"That isn't  _ fair _ ." Kirishima sinks back into the couch with a dream-shattered huff. "Bakugou's defeated more villains than all of us combined."

"Way too quickly though. You don't give the reporters time to show up, dude. Doesn't matter what the number is on paper if the public doesn't know about it."

"I'm not waiting on dumbass reporters! They either show up when I catch the villain or they don't, I don't fucking care."

"And that's your problem," Kaminari says, nodding like a great mystery was solved.

Kirishima nods too, and Bakugou seethes, stomping to the door. "I didn't come here to be lectured!"

"All I'm saying," Kaminari continues, heaving himself upright, "is that you need some good publicity before you try joining the Hollywood side of the hero business. Even Mina had to break into the top one hundred before starring in her first movie."

"I don't  _ want _ to do that shit," Bakugou grumbles, giving Kaminari enough time to put his boots on before walking onto the front step. "All Might never had to."

Kirishima steps up beside him, places a hand on his shoulder and smiles like he always does: too soft. Too nice. Too  _ good _ , like sunbeams bundled in neon clothes. Like something Bakugou doesn't exactly deserve or  _ not _ deserve, because he's done a lot of good shit, just a lot of not great shit too.

And his hand sits heavy on his shoulder, but so does the moment, like a sudden weight pulling him down when Kirishima says, "You're not All Might, Bakugou. You're Ground Zero." 

A knot forms in his chest, around his heart, clenching and caging him in. Suffocating him, but he breathes evenly, scowls normally. Just the right amount of scorn, no emotions laid bare.

Kirishima doesn't let go, fingers curling and pressing in firm, steady, and his voice drops to a quiet timbre. "I saw the stack of bills you brought home, Bakugou. Do an interview, get that ranking back up. You need the money."

"Besides," Kaminari says, oblivious, closing the door behind them and locking it, "even All Might did interviews. Did a whole around the world tour, too."

Kirishima gives him one, long searching look, then he let's go and walks off, leaving him standing there, numb. A bit broken, too, but he's been broken for a week and figures that's his life now.

He takes solace in knowing that Kirishima had wanted to offer more than just advice. And if he'd thought Bakugou would accept a handout, he'd have done it, no questions asked. Beer notwithstanding.

But he's not a charity case, and Kirishima's done more than enough for Bakugou already, so Bakugou stands tall, grins at their jokes. 

Pretends he's not considering their words, because that's too much like giving up.

* * *

They show Kaminari the crime scene photos on their way to the hospital. He whistles, squinting at the names on the screen. "I hope this isn't a hit list, because my name is here."

"It's not a hit list," Bakugou says snatching the phone back. 

"He thinks this is a suspect list," Kirishima explains.

"Then why is Koda highlighted?"

" _ My _ name is highlighted too."

" _ You _ make sense. I've seen the news. The whole city thinks you've got something to do with this. But Koda is the most innocent guy we know!"

"Actually," Kirishima coughs to hide his laugh, "she thinks Bakugou is innocent too. That's what the yellow means."

"So she's dumb?"

Bakugou pushes him off the sidewalk and steers Kirishima by the elbow until the two of them are finished laughing.

"I was joking!" Kaminari pouts when he catches up to them. "But seriously, if this  _ is _ a suspect list, then what is she suspecting us of?"

"Creating the wormhole," they say in unison.

He pauses with a bewildered expression stamped onto his face. "I thought she created it?"

"She said she didn't."

"And you believe her?"

Kirishima shrugs. "It doesn't matter what we think. She's a fugitive and it's our job to find her."

Kaminari stares at Bakugou, he can feel his eyes boring holes into the back of his skull as if he's waiting for him to say something. To speak up, to argue against the protocols they're meant to follow, or maybe just to explain why none of this matters — this questioning they're doing. Investigation is the job of the police, they all know this; heroes are just there to follow orders and win the battles.

None of them voice their thoughts, and they trudge in silence the rest of the way to the hospital. Only the sight of Koda wobbling on crutches and waving cheerfully at them stops his anxiety from latching onto him the closer they get to the glass doors. He’ll need another shower after this, he suspects.

Koda hops two paces forward. There's a neck brace cradling his jaw and a blue cast over one of his legs. They lean around Koda's larger frame to see a volunteer standing next to an empty wheelchair, glaring at him from a distance.

"Shouldn't you be using that?" Kirishima asks, pointing at the chair while trying to help balance him with his other arm. "I don't mind pushing you!"

He tries to shake his head, but is prevented by the brace and he winces, flushing from embarrassment. "No, I — wanted to walk."

Another hop, and Bakugou goes to his opposite side, hovering, but he doesn't coddle him. If his stay was anything like his own, he knows that Koda just needs to breathe as far as he can get from the hospital they'd been imprisoned in for so long. And Kaminari grabs the chair, just in case, wheeling it behind them as they go down the handicap ramp.

They make it to a group of benches on the other side of the street before Koda stops, posture loosening, smile a delicate line as he regards them. "Hello everybody."

Kaminari beams. "You had us worried! Glad to see you're alive!"

"Sero was discharged this morning," Koda says. "I'm sorry."

"We're here for you," Kirishima reassures him. "Sero texted us earlier. Tooru picked him up."

"They're probably dating!"

" _ Not _ the fucking time."

"That's nice," Koda cuts in. His voice is quiet, as it always is, and he glances at Bakugou. "Are you alright, too?"

"Never better."

"Broken ribs," Kaminari informs him, the bastard. "Which means without our team captain, we've officially been pulled off the roster and disbanded!"

Koda's expression drips downwards like he's about the apologize again, so Bakugou adds, "But that doesn't mean we get a vacation. She's still out there, and we're going to find her before  _ Deku _ does."

He expected that would give him a purpose, cheer him up, but his whole body keeps drooping until he lets out a pathetic, "Oh."

" _ Oh _ ?"

"Um, well," he starts, worrying at his bottom lip, shifting from his good leg to the broken one before correcting his stance. "Can we… not?"

Bakugou's gaze narrows. "Can we not do  _ what?" _

"Can we not," Koda's voice lifts into a high shrill, "find her?"

" _ Why _ ?"

“Well — you see. She, um. Healed me? In the hospital. With her quirk.”

Because of course she has another quirk. Because of course she can bleed and bruise and just heal it all back to normal.

He thinks back to the hair on his sock and wonders if she can heal burns too. His hand flexes, fingers spread wide, but Kaminari abandons the wheelchair and rushes by him, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. “The injuries she  _ gave _ you?”

Kirishima's next, arms flailing away from their supporting position. "Why didn't you tell the police?"

“No! Yes? Not, well, because…” His words trail off into a jumble Bakugou can't hear and he grits his teeth, pokes him once in the chest.

“If you don't speak the  _ fuck _ up, I'm putting you back in the hospital.”

“She didn't know!” he squeaks out, hands raised in defense. “I was behind the glacier when she punched it! She couldn't see me, and I couldn't — I had my birds with me. I couldn't move or else they all would have… then the ice hit me.” 

Kirishima places a hand on his back, smiles hard, pulled tight, and directs him towards the closest bench. “We understand, Koda” he says, because they do, even if Bakugou judges him for it. “So walk us through what happened next.”

“I saw it happen!" Kaminari pipes up with a grin. "He became a slushie!”

“Collateral damage,” Bakugou corrects. “Like ice cream.”

Koda twists the ends of his sleeves together, hunkering in on himself. “More like — like a snowman. In pieces. Melting, carrot nose missing...”

“No,” Kirishima groans. “That's morbid. Stop hanging out with Tokoyami. And you two,” he swirls and jabs a finger at them both, “don’t interrupt. This is  _ serious _ .” When they nod, he sits, wraps a comforting arm around Koda’s shoulders and leans close. “Skip past the traumatic parts, okay? No need to remember those. What happened when she — “

“I left a popsicle on the sidewalk once,” Kaminari starts, sees the sudden, surprised faces of his friends and furrows his brows at each of them in turn. “What? I'm  _ serious _ ! Koda looked just like it!” 

Bakugou grabs his collar and forces him onto another bench before Kirishima forms a response through his sputtering. 

“He's right,” Koda says, almost a whisper but loud between them, forcing them quiet. “I was —  _ really _ bad. The doctors told my sister to prepare. For the, um, worst. Recovery Girl even came out of retirement just to — see. Me. Said there was nothing she could do.”

The lingering good humor slinks away, and Kaminari goes tense, using Bakugou’s hold to keep himself grounded, fingers a vice grip around his wrist. It's one of the few times Bakugou wishes he could witness his naked expression without his dark shades angled high, just to see if he's angry at the world too.

Koda hiccups, but doesn't cry like Bakugou expects him to.

“Then I woke up and she was there, sitting on my bed, hands glowing, telling me that. That I'll be okay. I was too, um. Drugged? Too tired to understand who she was until after she had left. I thought she was a — a hero.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Sorry,” he says. “She said sorry and then gave me a, uh, this.” Reaching into his jacket, he tugs out a slip of paper and hands it to Kirishima. 

“Oh.” He sucks in a breath, lets it go shakily. “I'm sorry, Koda. I know you loved him.”

“He was my — my best falcon,” he stutters, lips quivering, “and I couldn't save him.”

Bakugou snatches the note from him. Reads, frowns at the words and then at Kirishima, passing it to Kaminari. “She buried it at the park?  _ That's _ why you lied to the police?”

“No, man,” Kirishima holds Koda closer as his tears finally come, says, “that's not why Koda kept her a secret. How many villains understand what these animals mean to him? How many would give one a gravestone?”

“Zero,” Kaminari says, “and not many heroes either.”

He gives Bakugou a cutting glance; he ignores it, slides backwards until his spine rests against a lampost, firm metal hot under the spring sun. Crosses his arms and glances at the hospital he badly wants to run from. “So she's freakishly friendly, so what?”

“Maybe nothing, but it at least explains the notebook.”

“Which tells us nothing we didn't already know. A villain thinks Koda and I are her  _ friends _ .” 

“Are we sure she is one?" Kaminari asks. "A villain, I mean. Because I've been thinking about it a lot on the way over, and what if she destroyed the neighborhood in, like, really extreme self-defense? Midoriya does it all the time and he's still a top five hero! And! And she said she expected a trap, remember? Making things go boom is a reasonable response to that, ya know, according to our cute, favorite explosion boy over here.” 

"Fuck off, air-brain!"

Kaminari fucking winks at him.

“I know! I remember, but it  _ still _ doesn't matter what we think,” Kirishima reminds him. “Our job is to bring her in and let the law judge her actions, but — “ 

“But this is unfair. She's too nice to be evil,” Koda finishes for him, and Bakugou is pretty fucking sure that's  _ not _ what Kirishima was going to say, but none of them have the heart to correct him. "The, um, when the doctors came in. They said a miracle had — " He hiccups, squeezing his eyes shut. "I — I think she saved my life, and that's not — not, well…"

That's not what villains do, Bakugou knows, sees the thought on the tip of everyone's tongue,  too. Just like every other action she had taken since exploding onto their world, it's confusing.

He doesn't want to ask, but, “If she hadn't destroyed the neighborhood, and hadn't run, what would’ve happened?"

“We can't ask what-ifs, Bakugou,” Kirishima says, voice strained, face turned away, and that's answer enough. 

Nothing would be different. Her status as a criminal was determined the moment she emerged from the depths of the wormhole; after a month of frantic searching, she's the only viable explanation they have as to who would create such a phenomenon, no matter if she denies it — no matter if she's telling the truth. The public needs a scapegoat to calm their fears, and she has no proof of her innocence. 

Open and shut case, really. It sets his hairs on end.

"She saved my life," Koda says again, more firmly this time. "She didn't have to."

Kaminari sighes, runs a hand through his ruined hair and then rests his elbows on his knees. "So Koda, you're saying you believe her?"

Without hesitation, "Yes."

"That sucks."

"Why?" Kirishima asks.

"Because," he pauses, scans the courtyard as if for spies, leans forward and continues in a whisper, "I think I believe her too."

"That's treasonous," Kirishima furiously whispers back. "We can't side with a villain!"

"Consider it siding against the scientists," Bakugou supplies helpfully, because he's biased, and he doesn't lower his voice. Fuck them.

"They're the  _ good _ guys! Or have you all forgotten the month of terror this city  _ just _ dealt with? Wormhole? Big, black sucky-sucky hole in the sky? End of the world countdowns, riots, and robberies? Ring any bells?"

"But she's a good guy too!" Koda shrugs off Kirishima's arm, stands up, nearly falls, but then he catches himself on a stone planter and looks at them — looks at them like he's ready to fight and Bakugou understands him, now. Understands what Koda isn't saying.

He nearly died one week ago and this woman was the only one able to stop him from meeting the end. Not the scientists, not the heroes. 

Koda, the man too fucking nice for his own fucking good — Koda, the boy he had grown and fought beside, who now didn't trust the system they had worked their entire careers to build and keep safe. Because the system failed him.

Because he had almost  _ died _ and a villain saved him.

His hand brushes along his own chest, pressing lightly against the broken bones she had left him. She could have killed him too, but she hadn't. 

"Koda," he says. "Stop."

There's more he wants to say, more that  _ should _ be said, but he shuffles closer, knocks his shoulder against Koda's and pointedly does not look at any of them. "We'll sort this shit out." 

Koda sniffles, but thankfully he knows better than to hug him.

Kirishima glances between them, then sighs. "I get it too, I'm sorry. But we can't jump to conclusions like this. This could be an elaborate ploy to earn your trust."

"Seems unlikely," Kaminari says.

"So does everything else about this," he responds easily, "so let's just keep an open mind, yeah?"

* * *

At Koda's insistence, they first visit the nearby park. Under a white pine tree, nestled within its roots is a nondescript, round rock partially sticking up from the ground. The soil surrounding it is freshly overturned.

"She wasn't lying," Kaminari says, and he focuses on Kirishima like his words are significant. 

Maybe they are, Bakugou thinks, but liars build their foundation on truth. In their line of work, they all should know this by now.

"Open minds," Kirishima reminds them. He takes a step back, dragging the both of them with him. "Let's give him a moment."

They turn around when Koda falls beside the grave and they stand vigil while he cries. Giving him this moment of silence, it's the least they can do. 

There's a knot still twisting inside Bakugou's chest, like a bramble now with its thorns stuck deep. Buried beneath the dirt with a headstone jutting out, it could have been Koda laying there dead. It could have been Bakugou.

Kirishima stands beside him alive, breathing, but there's a scar above his eye from their early days in the academy and more thick lines marring his back from various villains, right under the logo of his shirt. If any of those fights had been different, Bakugou could have lost his best friend. And if the woman had wanted them dead, they would be and Kirishima would be the one alone, sobbing onto the lid of their caskets. 

He had been reminded not to ask  _ what-if _ , but it's hard not imagining a life very different from the one they know when death lingers so close. Bakugou isn't afraid to die, none of them truly are, but he's suddenly acutely aware that he's afraid of losing his friends.

It's easier to feel safe when he calls the woman an ally rather than a villain, because she's dangerous and they don't  _ understand  _ her, not like each other. Not like other villains with clear motives and singular quirks.

He wants her to be good, perhaps they all do, and that's why Kirishima is so against the idea. Because they're feeling rather than thinking and they all know that's more dangerous than any fist.

Koda's breath stutters quick, and Bakugou's jaw locks tight. This funeral makes it easy to trust her.

"We'll figure this shit out," he repeats, quietly, and Kirishima squeezes his forearm, looks at him and smiles like he's telling him to be safe.

Bakugou smiles back, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing more than two people talking in a scene is way harder than I remembered haha. Hope I pulled it off well! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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